keep your head up
by Daffidill
Summary: five years on, Greg Lestrade carries on contemplating his relationship with Sherlock's big brother... all is well, of course... until it all goes pear-shaped... {companion piece to The Premier League}
1. keep your head up

_a/n: companion piece for The Premier League - read it and it will all make sense...  
__can be read on it's own...  
__from Greg Lestrade's p.o.v.  
__{don't own any of the characters, sadly...}_

_~ many thanks to JohnsArmyLady for keeping my nose in the right direction, and to Sherlock'sScarf for the beautiful examples she's set in her stories..._

* * *

**part 1**

_Keep your head up,_  
_keep your heart strong._  
_keep your mind set, _  
_keep your hair long._

_Oh my, my darlin'_  
_ keep your mind set in your ways._  
_Keep your heart strong._

_'Cause I'll always remember you the same._  
_Oh eyes like wildflowers, _  
_oh with your demons of change_  
_{ben howard, keep your head up}_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

five and a bit years on...

From those beginnings, when all was new and strange and unfamiliar, exciting and unsettling, life has come a long way… Thinking back on it made me realise how very extraordinary it all was, the turn my life had taken, the feelings I'd developed for one particular man, how having him in my life proved to be so incredibly important.

The summer had been a continuation of our getting to know each other even better, with days by the sea, meeting up with my family, which Mycroft said was infinitely more pleasant than any weekend with Mummy (although our friendship with Swedish home help Annika helped a great deal there), fitting in our mad working hours to actually have time together at all, keeping Sherlock out of trouble, which was not easy, now that a psycho-headcase called Jim Moriarty had appeared on the scene, testing the reserve of all in his life to the extreme. Especially that of poor John Watson.

Christmas with his mother, and John and Sherlock, along with Mrs Hudson and her sweet, dotty sister, and some other guests, was quite amusing. Mainly because there were so many people to talk to (and flirt with – I remember Annika took a shine to me, having figured out that I used to be married, and therefor possibly still interested in women, and I must say that it was quite nice to be chatted up by an attractive young woman like her, at my age… Telling her that it was never going to happen, that I was in love with and committed to Mycroft, but that I was very flattered was painful. I've never been good at disappointing women… But it worked out okay, because she's now one of my dear friends…), and being able to confide in John Watson that I'm involved with his boyfriend's brother was great… Somehow it was a relief, and he seemed cool with it too, though it took him a minute to get his head around it, but that might have just been the notion of Mycroft having a love life to begin with…

The New Year that followed began okay. I was getting to know John a lot better; we hung out and shared Holmes Horror Stories. A very nice way to spend some of my spare time… But then things began to go strange.

Moriarty cranked up the pressure bit by bit, managing to slowly imply that Sherlock was a fraud, and the media, who'd fallen in love with the idea of Sherlock, as well as people who worked closely with me, started to turn against him.

I noticed how close John and he were, throughout all this, but that cracks were starting to form, miniscule, but visible to the trained eye. Mycroft's behaviour was getting more puzzling too, as time went on, and although I was getting used to him not telling me everything about what he got up to with regards to his work, there was something odd about this one.

And then Sherlock jumped…

0o0o0o0o0o0

It felt like the earth stood still…

I had seen suicides in my career, plenty – too many… I had been witness to one or two, desperate people knowing no way out, and even though they'd never, ever become part and parcel, I had shut myself off from becoming too upset, somehow. Until it happened to the younger brother of my partner…

My partner, who seemed to turn into an iceman even more than he appeared before this happened…

It was heart rending to see John deal with it. Or rather: not deal with it… He'd gone into melt-down, became thoroughly depressed, and it took a lot of my energy to keep him from going after his lover, jump off that roof, or do something drastic with his Browning… Not even Mrs Hudson had much to offer, apart from homemade biscuits and a shoulder to cry on. Us three being the Reason He Jumped was eerie… It brought us closer together…

Mycroft disappeared into a world of his own. I sort of lost him, and it took me weeks of probing and asking and gaining his trust back, only to have it all shattered into a million pieces, when he said that Sherlock was still alive…

In a haze of disbelief and anger I heard him tell me that he was the reason that it had come this far, that he had to go to these lengths to get Jim Moriarty off this planet. He had told the Consulting Criminal vital stuff about Sherlock, to gain his trust, to be able to catch him, and Moriarty had used it all to turn the world against him. To turn John against him…

'How the fuck could you let this happen, Mycroft?' I almost scream at him. 'How the fuck…'

'I had to, Gregory, I had to find a way to get that awful man to speak, to give us an angle… I had to gain his trust, somehow, so I thought… I never thought…' he says, pained. I can see that he's sorry, that he is carrying the weight of the sadness of three people with him, and that he would really want this another way, but that his hands were tied.

'But John is… Can't you tell him? He's this close to giving up, Mycroft… _This_ close,' I spit, indicating half an inch with my fingers, finding it very hard to empathise with the impasse my dearest must've found himself in, back then. Without telling me… 'Why didn't you tell me?' I'm whispering now. I'm so incredibly angry…

'Sherlock is okay, he's hiding somewhere, and he's slowly eliminating sections of Moriarty's network, with the help of MI5, in as much as he's willing to work with them, of course… He needs time for that… Until then you and John and Mrs Hudson are in severe danger… I'm not going to risk losing you, or getting John Watson in danger for no reason…'

'No reason? I think John's life is in far more danger now…'

'I know, Gregory… Do you really think that his health is not any of my concern? What do you take me for…'

'At this moment? I really don't know, Mycroft…'

0o0o0o0o0o0

I take some extended leave, move in with my sister in Brighton for a few weeks, get John to come down to join me for a couple of days, and he actually manages a smile, when we get attacked by seagulls, trying to nick our chips. It felt like the sun came out, after months of cloudy dreariness. He appeared to be going uphill from then on.

My relationship with Mycroft, however, nosedived. Tragically…

I moved into my room at the back of the house, and we spoke only when needed. I noticed his anguish, how sad it was making him feel, but I couldn't kiss him, or even touch his hand, while my anger at his cold and distant dealing with this tragic event hadn't subsided. I felt betrayed by him, as if I couldn't trust him any more. I still loved him, deep down, but I just couldn't show it.

So much so that I decide to moved out.

I take a flat not far from my old one, close to the Yard, walking distance, in fact, making life a little easier in that sense. No more sleek black Bentleys taking me around, just old fashioned footwork. Better for my health any way…

Mycroft has turned as withdrawn from me as I could imagine, unable to share his thoughts and feelings with me, and why should he – _I'm_ deserting him, after all the love he showed me, after all the exposing of his vulnerable side… I can't blame him, really…

After three months alone in my flat I break down…

Hours of tears pour out of my face, my eyes turn red and bleary, and I really couldn't give a fuck… The sadness for my relationship breaking down, for the love I lost, for the time I had with a man that I was so in love with… Also my father's death appeared to still have bits of unresolved flotsam in my subconscious. And my fucked up marriage to Louise… Cases that meant more to me than I wanted to ever admit, deaths and despair, all of it came out, and it made me scared enough to call my sister, beg her to come over to help me.

'It must be bad then, if you're asking me for help…' she said, when I rang her. It somehow made me laugh. A bit.

'I really don't know what to do, Nat…'

'Are you sure it is me you want to see, Greg?'

'Why, who else should I ring?'

'Um, I don't know, your boyfriend, maybe? Just a wild guess…'

'We're on a break, Nat… Stuff has happened and I needed some space…'

'Doing you a world of good then, by the sound of it… Anyway, I'll be with you tomorrow morning. Can you hang on till then?'

She came over, armed with an overnight bag and a dvd of a film we used to watch as youngsters, one that used to have me in stitches.

'Just in case yelling at you doesn't work,' was her reasoning.

She made me soup, got fresh bread form the bakers down the road, changed my bed clothes, opened the windows, bullied me into the shower, got me to have a shave and sat down with me on the sofa, flicking through the channels on my tv.

'Nothing on… it must be Saturday…' she grins. I'm stirring my soup – carrot and lentil, her favourite – taking the odd sip, feeling slightly better already.

'Thanks for this, sis,' I say.

'You're welcome, smurf.' She grins. 'Makes a change from sorting out your niece… She's more of a handful now than when she was three…'

'How's her study going?' I ask, suddenly remembering that I have relations.

'Okay, I guess… She's found somewhere to do her apprenticeship, in Brighton, so no traveling for her. And if she remembers to go in to school, all is well. No nagging from her teachers… God, I don't know…'

Then she turns to face me. 'Are you going to tell me why you're on a break with Mycroft? I know his brother jumped to his death two years ago, has it got something to do with that?'

I take a deep breath, and let it out again slowly.

'It's a very long story, Nat… Let's just say that Mycroft wasn't all I though he was. It's all really complicated…' I say, hoping that will keep her happy.

Of course it won't…

'In what way? Did he push him?'

'Not really, no…'

'How does that work, not really? How did Mycroft not really make… Sherlock? That's his name, yeah? Why did Sherlock jump? Did stuff happen between the both of them?'

'Yes. Loads happened, Nat… Mycroft told stuff to someone that had a massive grudge against Sherlock and that lead to him having to make it look… To make him jump… With John, his partner, watching…'

'Jesus, Greg… What kind of weird, fucked-up world do you live in…? Poor bloke…' she stares out in front of her for a while, then something kicks in. 'Make it look, you said… to make it look, what, like he jumped? So he's still alive?'

I close my eyes, trying to work out how I can stop her form asking me more. But who am I kidding?

'Yep. And I can't tell John, or anybody else, because Sherlock is busy taking out anybody that's associated with his nemesis. He made Sherlock jump, and if he wouldn't, then I and John Watson and Mrs Husdon, the lady that owns the flat where he and John live, would've been killed instead. So in order to prevent that, he made it look to the world…'

'…And his boyfriend…'

'…Yes, that he had jumped off the roof of St. Barts… Only, somehow he survived, and now Mycroft is busy trying to keep him hidden away from danger.'

'Okay… And you're angry with Mycroft for lying to you…?'

'Betraying Sherlock's trust, and mine… And John's. Although I sort of understand that he did it to protect me, and the other two… I don't know, Nat… Every time I looked at Mycroft I saw John's despair, his grief, not to mention Sherlock, and how he must be feeling… He seemed so cold and unfeeling…'

'But you still love him…' she puts her hand on mine for a minute, and that's enough to make me start sobbing again.

'Yes…' I squeak.

'Then why don't you ring him, you daft man?'

'Because I can't…'

'Because you're scared he doesn't want to talk to you…'

'Yeah? Good enough reason, I think…' I sniffle. 'Not sure if I'd want to talk to me, after all that…'

'But you don't know…'

'No, I don't know…'

'Ring him…'

'Náát…'

'Okay, then I'll ring him…'

'No you bloody won't… I'll ring him when I'm ready…'

'Which is when?'

'I don't know, do I? Jesus Nat, leave it, will you?'

'I will, if you ring him up… Come on, Greg… Don't let this man go because of this all… I totally understand that you feel horrible, and that this has been distressing, but he's done all he can to do the right things, to protect as many people as he can…'

'You should've seen John, Nat… He was so close to following Sherlock down that roof…'

'I know, Greg, I'm not saying that he hasn't been a bit of a prick, but I'm sure he still loves you… Can you let go of your anger? Or is that more important than the love you shared with him?'

'I don't know, Nat… Maybe I should just try to forget him…'

'Like that's ever going to happen…' Nat gets up from the sofa to put the dvd in the machine. 'Didn't have you down as a coward…'

'I'm not a coward… I'm just not ready yet…'

'Okay… Let's watch this for a bit… Take your mind off all this.'

And with that I hear the beginning sounds of_ Monty Python and the Holy Grail_, and it does the trick within a minute. Thoughts of Mycroft disperse and I find myself giggling, something I haven't managed for so long…

Later that week I go back to work, and within days it feels like all is back to normal. Mycroft keeps appearing in my head, but just as easily vanish again, and there are days that I don't think about him at all.

Nathalie sends me the odd text, asking if I've phoned him yet. And when I answer 'no' she calls me a chicken, and I tell her to back off… Which she doesn't of course…

After months of this, I decide to take the plunge, and send him a text, just to test the waters. He appears delighted, if that's measurable in a text message. I asked if I could ring him later that day, and he said yes, with three exclamation marks...

When the time comes to make the call, I feel jitters. Like I did when I asked Louise out for dinner, many moons ago. My fingers tremble when I press his name, then touch the green dial button, and hear the tone which tells me that he should be hearing his ringtone, somewhere else in London.

'Hello Gregory,' then says a very familiar voice on the other side. God! I missed that so much…

'Hi, Mycroft,' I almost whisper, overwhelmed with feelings of longing to be back with him.

'It's so nice to hear from you,' he carries on. 'How are you doing?'

'Um… Alright, I guess… You?'

'As well as can be expected… Busy, trying to stop the prime minister from making a fool of himself, you know the drill… What are you up to these days?'

Jesus this is so bloody hard… All my feelings of anger and mistrust and whatever else drove me to leave him, have evaporated, and all I want is to see him again, listen to him, touch him…

'Can I see you, Mycroft? Please…'

'Yes, of course! Do you want to come over now?'

I do, desperately, but I decline.

'Dinner maybe, tomorrow? Just talk, nothing more…' he suggests, his voice soft and fragile, suddenly.

'That'd be great… I'm sorry, and I miss you…'

'I miss you too…'

And then our chat is over again.

I don't sleep much that night, thinking over what has been happening these past two and a half years, the reasons why, the depths of despair, the bonds broken… And it all seems to matter nothing…

Dinner is nice, once I get over my trepidations, and I accept that I wish to be back with the man that betrayed his brother (reasoning that I don't know what I would do in his situation…), that all my anger means nothing when I'm in his company again. Halfway in the meal he puts his hand on mine, carefully stroking it, taking it into his, and I allow him to lift it, and pull it towards his mouth, kiss it, and I move my finger so that I touch his face, hold it, caress it for a few seconds, and make my thumb rub his lips, ever so gently, and know that any restraint I might have had has disappeared.

That night I'm back in his bed – _our_ bed.

And for the first time in ages, I sleep well…

Quiet weeks pass by, and once more I feel happy.

And then John Watson calls me to say that Sherlock had just turned up at the flat…


	2. keep your heart strong

**part II**

**Keep your heart strong**

_I've been worryin'  
__that my time is a little unclear_

_I've been worryin'  
__that I'm losing the ones I hold dear_

_I've been worryin'  
__that we all,  
__live our lives,  
__in the confines of fear_

_~ ben howard, the fear ~_

0o0o0o0o0o0

When John rang, I was walking back from the supermarket with ingredients for a meal I was going to cook for Mycroft and myself. I had decided to make curry, as he mentioned to me that it had become his favourite in the time he had gotten to know me, and smelling the spices, the aroma from a pan of bubbling sauce made him feel like all was okay. Especially in the years that we weren't together.

My mind was nowhere near Baker Street when my phone rang.

'_Greg, I need to speak to you… He's on the sofa here, sleeping… I just saw him when I came back from work, and… I don't know what to do_…'

He is whispering, as if scared to see what would happen if he wakes Sherlock up.

'Where are you?' I ask him, in shock myself, but more for the possible implications of this. Mycroft must've known…

'_I'm in the kitchen, I can see him from here, and he doesn't look that well…_'

'Right… Um… Do you want me to come over? Or can you handle this on your own?'

'_Don't really know Greg… He's alive… I should be so happy, but I don't…_' I can hear him break on the other side and decide that going over there is probably the best option.

I've reached the house and let myself in, put the chicken in the fridge, and the other bits on the worktop. Then I ring a cab to take me to Baker Street. I don't know whether I'm angry with Mycroft for not letting me know that Sherlock was planning to go back home, or to give him the benefit of the doubt – Sherlock can be pretty unpredictable at best, so it could be possible that he hadn't informed his brother of his next move either. But fancy springing that one on John like that… As if he hasn't had enough to deal with…

In the cab I ring Mycroft, just to ask him what the hell is going on.

'_Hello Gregory, how's your day going?_'

'Fine, thanks, up until about half an hour ago…'

'_Why, what happened then?_'

'John rang up to say that your brother is lying on their sofa, asleep…'

'_Shit_…' which I'm sure is the first time I hear him say that word…

'Indeed… Did you know about this?'

'_No! Trust me, Gregory, I'm as surprised as you are… I knew he was back in London, I've been in contact with him…'_

'You've been in contact… Oh, come on, Mycroft… Don't you think I'd like to have known?'

'_Yes, of course, but MI5 is dealing with this, darling… I didn't know that he was on his way to see John… God, what a stupid thing of him to do…_' he sighs in the microphone.

'Not just stupid, Mycroft… I'm on my way to 221b now, just to give John a bit of moral support…' I feel prickly, at the inability of both Holmes brothers to consider the feelings of John Watson…

'_Oh, okay… I'll just go and see what I can find out… I'll call you in a bit_,' he says and rings off.

The door of the house is already open, so I let myself in, run up the stairs and find John still in the kitchen, leaning against the draining board, clutching a mug, staring towards the living room, at the sight on the sofa.

He notices me come in, looks up and smiles, as if on auto-pilot.

'Has he moved at all?' I ask to break the silence.

John just nods.

'How are you?'

He pulls both shoulders up, the universal sign for 'I haven't got a clue'.

'This is so unreal. For years I've mourned, I've grieved for him, and now… He's here…'

Then he looks sideways.

'Did you know?' he asks, in a tone that hovers between accusing and stunned. 'Because you don't seem very shocked, or surprised that he's here, in the flat… Did you know he was alive all along?'

I turn away, unable to hide the shame I suddenly feel. I have known, for years, and not told John. First at the request of Mycroft, then to leave matters rest, as John appeared (but what do I know?!) to be coming to terms with the way things were… Should I have told him? Would it have made life easier for John? For myself?

I nod.

'Yes, I knew… I'm sorry John…'

'I'm sure Mycroft knew… He always knows everything… Shit… For fuck's sake, Greg… You didn't tell me… You just let me…' he stops when the scruffy lump on the sofa moves, stirred by John's raised voice. The anger has made space for shock once more, and he stares again.

'Maybe you should go now.' John's tone is even, but I can sense he's seething underneath. I would like to question him there, offer him my support, but I'm guessing he's not so keen on it now.

'If you're sure,' I try.

'I'm sure,' he answers, his eyes still on the sofa.

I want to put my hand on his shoulder, but he moves it away, walks off to sit in his chair by the fire, and I move out into the hallway.

I stay put for a while, just to make sure that nothing untoward is happening, but when Mycroft rings me, I decide that it's probably best if I go.

'Just hang on a minute, Mycroft, I'm making my way downstairs from the flat… What have you found out?' Out on the pavement I give him my full attention, feeling slightly chastised by what happened minutes earlier. What right do I have to be angry with Mycroft when I've kept information from someone who considered me his friend, information that could have kept him from feeling desperate years ago… Someone who's now having to deal with the fact the his partner, whom he thought he buried and deeply mourned for, was back in his life, alive and, hopefully, well.

'_Sherlock is still in some danger, it appears… One of Moriarty's men, the last one to remain alive, is after him, and on his tail, so we should really get going with a plan to get this problem dealt with… Can you tell John to draw the curtains for now, please?_'

'I doubt that he'll listen to me, Mycroft… He's just cottoned on to the fact…'

'…_it's for Sherlock's and _his_ safety, please try, my dear_…' he pleads with me.

'I'll give it a go… What are you going to do now?'

'_There's a special parcel in the basement, that some men form MI5 shall have to sort out in a while, but first we'll have to get the boys out of the flat. Can you convince John to get him and Sherlock out of the backdoor of Mrs Hudson's flat and meet up where Siddons Lane meets Glenworth Street… Oh, and can you inform Mrs Hudson about all this too, as she's going to have to come along…_' which is not so much a question as a demand.

'I'll do my best…'

'_I know… Sorry about all this…_' Mycroft's soothing voice does actually smooth away nerves and anger I might have been feeling, and I go back inside 221b with apprehension, as well as an adrenaline rush caused by the notion that things are under way.

The next few hours are fairly tense. Mrs Hudson seems keen for an adventure, the guys are pretty wired.

I walked in on some heavy snogging, although I saw that Sherlock has not been welcomed without John making it known just how angry and upset he has been, as I notice a bruise on his cheek, with bits of dried blood where the skin was cut. John's hand, the one that's holding Sherlock's back, is red and sore-looking on the knuckles. They don't hear me come in, engrossed as they are in each other, so I cough, and am met with Sherlock's annoyed leer and John's slightly embarrassed look. I apologise for my intrusion, move to close the curtains, as was requested by Mycroft, and explain what the plan is.

'God, I just hope that my brother has his act together,' Sherlock says, and it's both eerie and comforting to hear his voice boom out in the room once more… He looks okay, not too malnourished (Mycroft made it sound like he was unable to eat a lot of the time, consumed with anxiety to get rid of Moriarty's accomplices as he could, and a kind of grief for not having John Watson near him to calm his thoughts, soothe his needs… I was expecting someone a lot less groomed, though he didn't look like the Sherlock I remember from the Christmas party at his mother's, so many years ago now…)

I take Mrs Hudson to her sister's house in a taxi, John and Sherlock go off to meet with someone from the security services, then I hear that some of my colleagues are hiding in a house opposite of 221b, and that John and Sherlock have found their way there too, and that I'm to stay nearby for possible arrests. Sebastian Moran, as I've finally figured we're dealing with, is dangerous, and a brilliant sniper, has his eyes on Sherlock, and is planning to have him shot from a flat near to the one that the guys are now in. Mycroft's men have apparently placed a lifelike dummy of Sherlock in the front room, hoping that that will work as a decoy. I'm glad I wasn't John when the thing was revealed…

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The hours waiting are tense, and when a shot rings through the quiet street, I notice it comes from the same flat that I know that John and Sherlock are waiting in…

Glass splinters out into the road, on both sides of Baker Street, and I run towards the house. Mycroft had given me keys to it, as a precaution, and I open the door quickly, run up the stairs and see Sherlock apprehending a big bloke, angered, and three guys with serious weapons (and suddenly I feel a little underdressed with my standard issue handgun…) pointing towards the man. He's already been handcuffed, somehow, and all I have to do is officially arrest him, wait for a van to turn up and have him carted off to Scotland Yard, and hopefully out of our lives for good.

'Are you guys alright?' I ask, seeing that John is a little shaken.

'Yes, we're fine, Detective Inspector… Glad to have this finally over with… Have you spoken to Mycroft already?' Sherlock answers, pleasant as ever… I see the three year gap hasn't done a great deal for his social skills…

'I haven't, not in the last hour… Do you want me t-…'

'No, thanks… I'm sure he's on his way now, gloating about his little plan going… to plan… Yes… Come on, John, we have some stuff to do now…'

'Wait a minute, Sherlock, you still have a statement to make, and there are some other matters to deal with…'

'That can wait until tomorrow, Lestrade. Don't be boring… John and I need to… Catch up… Urgently…' He wiggles his eyebrows at John, who still looks rather confused and overwhelmed, and I jump into the gap that was left.

'Your flat has become a crime scene, Sherlock, it will need to be sorted out… You'll probably have to stay with me and Mycroft for at least tonight, until…'

'No bloody way… I'm not staying there…'

'Maybe we should, just for tonight,' John butts in, softly.

'I'm not staying with Mycroft… No way…'

'It's my place too now…'

'Stay out of it, Lestrade… It's not happening, end of…'

'Don't I get a say in this?' John's voice has gained in power, and I see Sherlock change from obstinate to tender in the space of half a second.

Then Mycroft walks into the room, umbrella in hand, grin plastered on face.

'Hello, brother dearest… Glad to see you're still in one piece…' he then looks at John, and I notice the shift in his expression. 'John… Sincerest apologies for keeping you in the dark all this time… I really wish it could've been dealt with differently, but…'

'Matters of utmost delicacy… I know the drill, Mycroft, don't treat me like an idiot… Now is not the place to tell you how bloody upset I was when I found him on the sofa, but I'm sure that time will come… For now, Sherlock and I would like to be alone… Could you arrange for a hotel room, perhaps?'

I'm amazed to see John so composed, when I'm sure he's raging underneath that kind face… His eyes give away his pain.

Mycroft dials a number on his phone, gets someone to organise a room in the finest hotel nearby, as well as a taxi to get them there, and moves a tad closer to me. His reluctant smile is touching. I know how hard he's worked to get this to come to a conclusion that had the least amount of casualties… He had reckoned without the emotional carnage…

0o0o0o0o0o0

That was last year…

Can't say this past year has been calm or The Usual, because there appears to be no Usual with the Holmes boys involved.

It took me quite a bit of energy to get Mycroft and John to be on speaking terms, but I managed, not with the help of Sherlock, who carried on his sibling rivalry thing with as much gusto as before the hiatus. John and he spent a long time 'catching up', getting to know each other again, and slowly we were allowed back into their lives. John is still a little off with me, though, which makes me kind of sad, but I understand where it comes from, and I hope that time will mend that too.

Mycroft, inspired by his little brother, took a month off to spend with me. He hired a cottage on a small island in Greece, where we talked and walked and laughed, and cried over time we lost, pain we caused each other, wrongs we did, and in the calm and simplicity of life on the island I knew that whatever had happened, and however fucked up things have been, or will possibly be in the future, I do not want to be separated from this man ever again…

My memory goes back to a particular morning, when the sun was trying to make it over the hills in the distance, and all I hear is the sound of seagulls and waves crashing onto the shore nearby. I'm in Mycroft's arms, and he's snoring lightly. I can see a smile on his face, still there from when we made love a few hours ago. I shift a little, so that I lie more comfortably, but that seems to have woken him up, and I hear a groan, and his arms pull me closer still.

'Don't go,' he croaks.

'Wasn't planning to…'

'Oh, good… 'Cos I don't ever want you to not be in my bed unless there's an emergency somewhere… Do you understand?'

I feel his breath in my neck when he speaks, and I move my hand so that it strokes the arm that's holding me in a tight grip.

'You bullying me again, Mycroft Holmes?'

'I wouldn't dare, Gregory Lestrade…' he breathes and nips the skin on my shoulder with his warm lips. 'Not when I have a really rather significant issue to put before you… Something I hope to have your full cooperation with…'

'Oh? Now you've got me interested…' I say, and twist myself to face Mycroft. He's pretending to still be asleep, but his smile widening gives the game away. 'Go on… I'm listening.'

'Not now, my sweet, have patience…'

'What?! You can't do this! Get me all excited and then put the mockers on it… You swine, you…'

'It wouldn't be right, now, believe me… Later, trust me…'

'Trust you?' I look my lover into his eyes and see he's still sore on that one, looking at me to make it clear that this is no laughing matter to him. Trusting him, blindly, has been one of the issues we've hoped to tackle in the past year and a bit, and I think we've gotten somewhere with it. 'Anyway, um, tea?'

'Not yet. Haven't finished in here…'

He smiles, then leans over me to kiss me, and that's most of our morning taken care of.

The rest of the day we spend in the routine that we found works for us – late breakfast, do our own thing, separately, for a few hours, then have lunch, around two, and go into the village to get some shopping for dinner, get bread (if there's any left, though the lady that runs the baker's seems to have a thing for Mycroft, as she started to put some aside for us, giving him a wink, which cheers Mycroft up no end… I'm almost feeling jealous, although I think she's older than his mother…), have a coffee in the local café, wander back to the cottage, make and have dinner, share a bottle of local wine, either watch a film together, or read a book, or talk. Either way, we tend to nestle up on the sofa, like we've done this for a hundred years, and when we do, and I look up sometimes, or sideways, and catch his profile, so unmistakably Mycroft, I know that I feel so incredibly happy… Happy that I haven't lost him… Happy that we met to begin with… Happy that my sister convinced me to stop being an idiot…

And when we sit like that again, that evening, when he leans his head in my lap, and I try to concentrate on reading The Hobbit, while Mycroft is flicking through his phone, apparently wading through a load of messages but not answering any of them, I reach to get his free hand (the one that's not holding the phone, anyway), and notice that the ring he always wears (the one he once said was there as a red herring, although he never really explained for what – eager seniors? Hopeful underlings? – which he received from his first big love) has gone. A kind of inverted ring-shaped dent is left on his finger, and I run my thumb over it, feeling how it's made a mark.

'What have you done with it?' I ask, absent-mindedly.

'Oh, that… Well, I thought it was about time I got rid of it… It's not really right anymore to wear it, I feel…' he looks at it himself now, then takes my hand in his, and gets up into a sitting position.

'Right… Out with the old… Don't you feel naked now? I felt that when Louise and I broke up, that I felt my hand was all naked, exposed… It was weird… Almost put the thing back on, to stop it from feeling so strange…' I rattle, not noticing that he's just staring at me, smiling, waiting for a gap in my flow of words.

'Well, let's do something about that then, Gregory…'

'Sorry? How… Are you planning to… Oh fuck!'

'Um, well, I was going to propose, or whatever the correct term is…'

I feel like I'm floating…

'Gregory? Are you okay, my love?'

'Yes… I think so… You what?' I must be looking particularly stupid now, because Mycroft has started laughing. Then he slips off the sofa, gets onto one knee, and I suddenly feel rather self-conscious… He's not really going to…?

He is… He's reached into his trouser pocket and presents a small box to me, opening it to reveal a beautiful silver looking ring, which has a Celtic knot all the way around it, and my breath has stopped going quite as evenly as it should be.

'Gregory Lestrade, will you marry me? Will you be my husband? Please!'

The reality of the words hit me, suddenly – he wants me to fucking marry him! Should I think about this? Should I consider his request, sensibly, think about the implications, the inevitable life-change, the piss-takes at work, the sulking of a certain brother of his… I probably should, but before Sensible has hit my brain, I squeal something that sounds like 'Yes!', like I'm a girl, and see the face of the love of my life relax, and he looks at me questioningly, yet elated.

'Really?'

'Yes, Mycroft Holmes, I will marry you…' and then move forward to kiss him.

'You sure? Really, absolutely sure?'

'I'm really, absolutely, bloody, one-hundred per cent sure… Now stop asking me before I change my mind…' I smile.

'Okay, sorry… I was just so nervous about this… Thank you,' he gleams, getting up to sit next to me again, then he takes the ring out and puts it on my finger. It fits perfectly (how did he get that right?!). He then passes the other ring in my opened hand and I slide it on the finger that has looked so empty, and although it feels strange, to be doing this to a man, it also feels incredibly right… We're reduced to smile like a couple of simpletons, and then I burst out laughing, to just to break the stiffness that's in danger of taking over the distinctiveness of the moment, and I see it confuses Mycroft at first, and then I grab his hand, and say: 'Mr & Mr Holmes-Lestrade are proud to welcome you their home… Or will it be Lestrade-Holmes? Wait till my mum hears about this… She'll be so chuffed…'

'As will my mother, I think… She likes a good wedding. Especially a gay one…' he sniggers.

'She's been to many already then?'

'No idea. I just heard her mention that she loved the notion of gay Celebrities tying the knot, as their weddings are usually so much more fun to be at than Regular weddings… I've only ever been to one, myself… And that was madly over the top. Don't think I'd want that, to be honest…'

'Nah… Me neither…'

0o0o0o0o0o0

The Ceremony took place two months ago. The venue (the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, which is as gay as it gets) was beautiful and packed with the people that we insisted on being there (my mother and sister and her kids, of course, some more family who didn't object to a civil partnership, Mycroft's mother, Annika and Jake, her fiancé, some staff from the Manor, Sherlock and John, some colleagues, and – to my surprise – Louise and her new partner…), and when the sun came out, it was proof to us both that this was the right road to go down…

So, I'm now Gregory Lestrade-Holmes… Married into the aristocracy, as my mum gleamed (wrongly…), brother in law to the world's only Consulting Detective (who will also be tying the knot, as John let slip when we walked through the gardens of the Pavilion, as the sun poured over the beautiful building, making it feel even grander and more ostentatious than it already was, but I wasn't allowed to tell anyone yet…), beneficiary to a house and piece of land the size of the village I come from… Not bad for the son of a postman…

The phone just went – Mycroft telling me that Sherlock is in trouble again… Better be off now… Crime waits for no man!


End file.
